


until the skyline takes us home

by honeymilktea (rosevtea)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Minor Powers, but they are there, implied abandonment issues, librarians yaku and lev, magic shop owners yahaba and kyoutani, more shoujo manga metaphors than i was expecting, receptionist iwaizumi and college student kenma make minor appearances in ch 2, tattoo artist bokuto, the yakulev and kyouhaba are minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:47:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22947277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosevtea/pseuds/honeymilktea
Summary: Bokuto Koutarou, tattoo artist assistantextraordinaire, is bored out of his mind.And possibly devastated.(In which Bokuto messes up, meets Akaashi, and puts the pieces back together.)
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 152
Collections: Haikyuu Valentines





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chibs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibs/gifts).



> my valentine's exchange gift for Monk!
> 
> i'm so sorry this is late, writer's block just came out of nowhere? and there was more angst in this than intended, sorry. the actual application of the magical tattoos part of your prompts comes in chapter 2, which will be out next week!!
> 
> speaking of, i'm in love with mundane magic aus so ty for prompting that :') i hope you enjoy!

Mid-afternoon finds him at the park, staring at a drawing of a balloon and fighting the urge to tear the image apart.

There’s no way around it: Bokuto Koutarou, tattoo artist assistant _extraordinaire_ , is bored out of his mind.

Or maybe bored isn’t the right word. It’s the emotion he feels when his chest aches so badly his hands shake and he can’t think straight and tattoos almost always go _wrong_ and he messes up somehow.

Upset would be the better term. Maybe.

With a frustrated groan, he pushes the drawing away. Flying is usually his easiest tattoo! The designs are always simple, and he begs his mentor to allow him to make something more complex—like an _owl_ , oh, that would be the day—but the giddy excitement and freedom that comes from the weightlessness of flying is unparalleled.

Sitting there, despondent, the fleeting thought of quitting crosses his mind. It would surely be appropriate, given the situation. If he shows up looking sad enough, Iwaizumi might only yell at him once. Twice? On second thought, he doesn’t want to take his chances.

(But seriously, who ruins a tattoo this important on their best friend? Kuroo can’t even technically take away Bokuto’s _best bro_ rights, and the thought drags him back to earth.)

Slumping over the desk (formerly his workshop when he offered temporary tattoos), he concedes. He’ll probably have to come up with another career. Video production had been his back up minor, but he doesn’t even have a camera. Could he borrow Kenma’s camera? Is it rude to do that when he’s literally rendered Kuroo speechless?

Bokuto’s eyes shoot open. Kenma. He hadn’t even thought to talk to him after the incident, he probably hates him now—

A voice, quiet and clear, snaps him out of his thoughts.

“Excuse me?”

Bokuto spins around, ready to declare that he’s no longer doing tattoos—why the person would care, he doesn’t know, but it’s important to say aloud—and stops in his tracks.

Standing in front of him, eyes fixed on the crumpled sign taped to the front of the desk (proclaiming his previous services of _free temporary tattoos!!_ ), is a stranger. More specifically, a man with dark hair, wringing his hands, refusing to look up, and his fingers appear and disappear from view with what seems to be nerves. Unless the nerves are because this stranger doesn’t trust his skills? Sure, Bokuto’s never done a live demonstration, and he’s never seen this guy before in his life, and he’s not sure how a live demonstration would even _work_ , but—

 _You’re overthinking it_ , the voice in his head that sounds like Kuroo says, and the confusion drops down to something darker, murkier, something closer to deep, deep guilt. Kuroo can’t physically say it to his face, and that’s all his fault, isn’t it? It’s like something Bokuto’s read out of a manga once: the awesome protagonist who never messes up makes one fatal mistake, and their friends turn on them, and they’re left alone to go through a character arc.

But Bokuto’s never been good at character arcs, never been good at much if he was being honest, and the one thing he had been good at—the one thing he thought he’d never mess up—ended up hurting his best friend. It’s like something out of a manga, but the author lost interest in the story and left off on an indefinite hiatus.

And, yeah, maybe it would be lonely to look around and lose everything he thought he had, but he could get used to it, like he’s gotten used to staring at the backs of friends who were more like classmates turned acquaintances turned people who just nodded and smiled. Bokuto could adapt. It could be his new best thing.

“Oh,” the man in front of him mumbles, faintly distressed, “you seem to have gotten more upset.”

Looking up, Bokuto’s almost caught off-guard by the abrupt eye contact. The man stares at him with a concerned sort of intensity, like he’s trying to find the words to say but is also acutely aware that Bokuto hasn’t opened his mouth yet.

Bokuto’s been told that he takes in irrelevant facts with the same sort of retention he should be giving important ones. (Case in point: he had taken in the teacher’s tone and the bright red _see me after class!_ and the letter grade circled into his paper before squeezing his eyes shut. Even without seeing her shake her head, he could tell that she was disappointed, and the feeling washed over him, all flushed cheeks and furrowed brows and trembling mouths set in a thin line. 

He had pleaded with his body not to give in and cry, and settled for drumming his hands against the table. One beat, then two. Three beats, followed by one, and a pause. Two beats, and the cycle repeats.

Not even a little of his attention had gone to the material the teacher had tried to review. He was sent to supplementary classes and avoided his teacher’s eyes for the next month.)

Follow up example: his mind latches on to the fact that this guy’s eyes are blue (cobalt? Azure? He isn’t sure) and piercing and bright, yet look world-weary at the same time. Bokuto kind of wants to ask him when he last slept.

Not one thought had gone towards actually _responding_.

“Sorry! I just spaced out there.” Bokuto frowns. “I’m not usually like this, I swear! I’m just…uh. Yeah. What’s up?”

“I didn’t mean to say that.” Now the man’s frowning too, and it’s a repeat of the tattoo parlor, and Bokuto needs to take a breath but the cold winter air is sharp against his lungs. “You seemed…sad. I was wondering if you were okay, is all.”

 _Sad_ is the right word, but it’s not quite enough, and he seems to know it, scowling as he looks away. Bokuto’s gaze follows him anyway. He can’t tell if it’s because this stranger’s the only living thing in the area, or because the light illuminates reddening cheeks and puffs of air, or because _holy crap, he could tell and he’s still standing here?_

“If I was okay?” Bokuto blurts out. It’s not quite a complete thought, but he’s getting there.

He’s on the receiving end of a long, long look. His expression is less mocking than Bokuto expects.

Whatever shade of blue his eyes are, Bokuto decides that he likes them.

“Yes. I couldn’t just…ignore it.” Despite struggling through the words, the man maintains a steady gaze.

Maybe ‘steady’ is the wrong word: his mouth is pinched, almost like he wants to say more but is holding himself back. Bokuto figures he could understand that, but he can’t explain the melancholy settling into the man’s face, forming creases in his forehead and causing his hands to clench as his sides.

 _Somber_ , he concludes as the man shifts in place.

“I appreciate it,” Bokuto starts, pushing himself up from the desk. “But it’s my fault, y’know? And that’s the worst kind of mistake. To me, anyway. So you can just ignore it.”

He stands there, fingers fidgeting on the frayed edges of his jacket. For an odd moment, Bokuto wants to take the offer and tell him. Only for a millisecond, though, because the bright, scalding lights and the look of horrified clarity and the feeling of wrongness in his skin, visceral and real and terrifying come back when he tries to put any of it to words. He clams up.

A few seconds more and he goes, nodding as he adjusts his glasses and walks away without another word.

Bokuto stares after him, coat fluttering in the wind, hands tucked into the pockets. He watches as he walks out of the park and the city swallows him whole.

———

The next day finds him at the park, the sign long gone. Bokuto taps a rhythm on the table ( _one beat, then two_ ) until a shadow falls across his arm, and he stills.

“Sorry, I’m not offering the usual today,” he says as he looks up, and blinks.

Because things don’t come back to Bokuto, not unless he makes the effort to pull them back into his orbit, and he had let go of this sort-of-stranger. But he is tangible and alive and _back_ , glancing around the park. He wonders what the catch is.

“I couldn’t ignore it.” The man’s voice is rushed, almost strained like he had been scared of missing him. “My power allows me to feel other people’s emotions in relation to how strongly they feel them. And I—”

There’s always a catch to these sorts of things.

“Ah, sorry about that.” Bokuto closes his eyes for reasons unrelated to his current emotional state. “It’s really nothing to worry about.”

“Your sadness is the strongest emotion I’ve felt in years. I can’t ignore it.”

“I mean, if you leave the area, yeah you can?” That sounds less benevolent than Bokuto intends. “Wait, that came out wrong, you don’t have to—”

“Is there any way I can help?” the man mutters, picking at his jacket again.

“You want to help?” Bokuto asks, stunned. “But—”

 _Why?_ rests on the tip of his tongue, demanding to get out. There’s always a catch to these sorts of things, after all. The stranger’s not quite a classmate turned acquaintance turned person who just nods and smiles, but he could be. He could be.

The last person who pushed past all that was Kuroo, with his knowing smiles and pats on the back and genuine advice on days when Bokuto could barely speak. And he took away one third of that! One third rounds to one half if he tries hard enough, and that rounds up to a whole, and basically, Bokuto’s lost the only person who was never there out of obligation.

It’s fine, though. He can adapt.

“I can’t ignore it,” the man repeats insistently. “I don’t know you, or your circumstances, or this city, but I did, in fact, leave the area. I still couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“I’m sorry?” Bokuto says, because he’s never been the one to force anyone’s thoughts to linger and he’s not sure if it’s a good or bad thing.

“Not your fault.”

Placing a hand on the table, he leans closer. Just a little bit. Enough that Bokuto can make out the color of the scarf woven tightly around his neck (a dark green). It matches the cobalt or azure or whatever blue his eyes are.

“I can’t tell you what happened,” Bokuto says in response to nothing, really. “Like, the exact details? I try, but my throat does this thing. Y’know. It’s kinda weird.”

Probably an understatement. The man nods.

“That’s fine. What’s the problem, then?”

Bokuto hums, but he doesn’t feel like spilling his problems in a freezing park. _Location matters_ , he had heard in a movie once, but the protagonist had been confessing and he was rejected in the end. Maybe he should rely on another example.

Shooting out of his seat, he gives the man his best grin. It’s a little sharp at the edges, a little more manic than usual, but it passes.

“How does getting some food sound? Because I’m sorta hungry, and—” he glances at his phone “—it’s been a couple hours since I last ate. Maybe more than a couple, actually, but it’s not a big deal. I’d pay, of course!”

Bemused, the man says, “I would have believed you whether you included that last sentence or not.”

 _Refined_ , Bokuto thinks, dazed. Though quiet and halting, this stranger strings together sentences better than he ever could.

The comment registers.

“Hey! I’m trustworthy!” His shout echoes in the park and the man’s hand flies to his mouth. Bokuto wonders briefly if he’s already been too much, but he recognizes the stifled sound, amplified in the silence. Suspiciously close to a laugh.

His tone is dry. “Your business doesn’t exactly have the most professional display.”

For one exhilarating moment, the sensation Bokuto had felt the last time this stranger was near him spikes up with a vengeance.

“Actually, what’s your name?” leaves his mouth before he has the chance to mull it over. Bokuto hurriedly follows it up with, “I mean, if you’re trying to help me, I should probably know?”

Leaning onto his heels, he watches the man’s face turn thoughtful, staring off into the distance. The light hits him quite nicely, casting half of his face in shadow, highlighting the tips of his hair. It makes him look good. Objectively, of course.

“Akaashi Keiji,” he says, breaths coming out in steady puffs. A half-smile accompanies his introduction, more of a vague upward curl of the lips than anything concrete.

Bokuto forgets to speak for a moment. Maybe more like several moments, because Akaashi’s half-smile fades.

Right! Introducing himself, he should probably get back to that.

“Oh! I’m Bokuto Koutarou, tattoo—er, well, ex-tattoo artist apprentice extraordinaire!” Okay, maybe he could understand where Iwaizumi was coming from when he said the introduction was a mouthful. “I’m—I was pretty great.”

Announcing his day-old unemployment stings a little less than it had yesterday, which still means he’s itching for a needle; still means he’s burning with the desire to see the smile on a client’s face when they look at the finished product and feel the newly-acquired power running through their veins.

(Okay, maybe it still sucks.)

“Ah,” the stranger—Akaashi—says, like a revelation bulldozed over another train of thought. “I’m sure you were. Let’s go, then.”

———

Neither of them have any idea where they’re going, but they head into the city regardless.

Bokuto doesn’t mind; he’s spent hours exploring these streets before, wandering off the main road and stumbling into small, locally-owned shops. He loves it the most when he’s alone, letting his feet lead him somewhere he’s never been, the sounds of blurring conversations and honking cars fading in the distance as a pervading quiet accompanies him through empty alleyways.

(Bokuto loves it the _most_ when he can crouch down in one of these alleyways and listen to the city shift around him. The last time he had done so, he ended up in an alleyway where one wall had been entirely taken over by vines. Feeling the greenery under his back, he had taken a seat, tilting his head upward. Eyes closed, he heard the rumble of a distant train, faint clanging reverberating through the walls. He sprawled his hand against the wall, felt the solid brick underneath, and breathed in slowly.

He loves it. Listening to the city lets him pour his unending energy into something else. Something guaranteed to never tell him to stop.)

The city, however, is just beginning to stir: towering buildings reflect fragmented pieces of a grey sky, casting the city in a tired haze. Trucks rumble against the pavement, buzzing throughout his body. People crowd on the edge of a wide sidewalk as they wait for the light to turn green. Open signs begin to flicker and beam, small glows of reds and greens filling up window displays. Bakers lay out their pastries, the aroma filling the air. Bokuto can’t help but stare.

Akaashi looks like he's about two seconds away from taking out his phone.

“Googling directions isn’t allowed!” Bokuto declares, marching forward.

He almost steps off the curb. Akaashi’s gaze is equal parts incredulous and judgemental.

“If we make a wrong turn, it will be hours before we find any restaurants,” he says, voice cautious.

“And?” Bokuto says. At Akaashi’s glare, he continues, “Listen, all I’m saying is that finding it is part of the fun! Stumbling into hidden shops with warm smiles and discounts is super rewarding! Don’t you know?”

Akaashi’s tone is sharp. “I don’t live in the city, so I wouldn’t know.”

Bokuto’s probably stepped on a nerve. He backtracks.

“Not a big deal,” he blusters, turning to look at a window display when Akaashi’s blank gaze lands on him. “I can show you myself! I’m an expert at navigating the city, you know.”

“Is that so,” Akaashi muses, but his eyes soften as he follows him.

They pass a music shop, high golden lights illuminating the instruments on display. The woodwinds are luminous; the brass seem to shine at him. Bokuto slows down, giving a careful glance to the window before nodding to himself and moving on.

Akaashi’s expression is more curious than he likely means to reveal. Bokuto takes a deep breath and jumps in.

“My first week exploring the city, I found a record shop,” he begins, and waits.

Akaashi’s silence is more expectant than _please shut up_ , so he takes his chances.

“It was on an empty sort of alleyway, right? So I thought _wow, cool, another adventure_ , and I went down the alleyway, and I saw this door. It wasn’t really noticeable! I was perceptive, see, because it was dark and the door was this really dark brown, and I opened it and saw this really small shop with records that stretched _allll_ the way up to the ceiling.”

Stopping in the middle of the sidewalk, Bokuto stretches his arms up as far as they can reach, to prove a point. Akaashi nearly bumps into him, putting his hands on his shoulders to balance himself before stepping back a safe distance.

 _Warm_ crosses his mind, like the croissants the baker put out from two blocks ago. Such a shame he didn’t buy one.

“Bokuto-san, please be more careful.” Exasperation lingers in his eyes, but it’s still not _please shut up_ , so Bokuto keeps talking.

He tells Akaashi about how the lighting had taken him so much by surprise that he almost stumbled into the records at the front of the shop. The owner had materialized from the back and nearly kicked him out on the spot. It had taken a lot of begging to be allowed to stay. Also a pop quiz on music genres he had failed miserably.

Though the shop was small, he had meant it when he said the aisles were bursting with records. Bokuto had never been much of a music person, but jazz could have started a religion with the way the low, crooning of the singers and the velvety tones of the instruments reverberated through his body.

“And that’s how I got into jazz!” Bokuto finishes, dropping his hands to his sides.

Akaashi blinks. “There was a moral to this story?”

“Uh, yeah? The music shop we passed, like, five blocks ago.”

“Seven, Bokuto-san.”

“Same difference!”

They stop in front of a door, a tiny sign announcing that the store is open. It’s either a tire shop or the best noodle place in the city. Bokuto always gets the numbers mixed up.

“I am unopposed,” Akaashi concedes. “You’re a very lively storyteller. You make interesting connections.”

 _Interesting_ doesn’t sound nearly as mean in Akaashi’s mouth as it does in other people’s, although his voice is soft, almost monotone. He could insult Bokuto a hundred times over and get away with it, probably.

Maybe he’s thinking about it too much. Bokuto pushes the door open.

“It’s not the tire shop this time,” he says brightly as he bounds up to the front counter.

Bokuto doesn’t hear Akaashi’s confused murmur, but it’s fine. There are other things to talk about.

———

“Hypothetically,” Bokuto says after slurping down the last of his noodles, “if I had accidentally made someone unable to talk, how could I fix that?”

“How, exactly, did you manage that?” Akaashi asks, his cup frozen in front of his face. He had settled for tea.

“Would you believe me if I told you magical tattoos existed,” Bokuto continues seriously.

“You’ve spent this entire meal telling me about the time your friend tried to get a dolphin to fly. I have a power. Yes, I believe you.”

Well, when Akaashi puts it like that, he sounds ridiculous.

“Okay, so—” he leans forward, hands clenching against the table “—say, theoretically, that I could do magical tattoos, but I messed up. Like, really badly. Is there a spell for that or something?”

Akaashi bites his lip and it feels like the first time he ever listened to jazz, all wonder and anticipation humming in his veins. The comparison is strange, though. Akaashi hasn’t even said anything.

“I think,” he says at length, “there’s a way to solve this. I remember reading about it once, for a course. Reversing the effects of permanent magical applications.”

“You must take really cool courses to know terms like that,” Bokuto says, awed.

“It’s part of the general course,” Akaashi replies, chagrined. “You have a power related to your occupation, I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it before.”

“I’ve never needed to.” Bokuto’s shoulders droop. “I’ve never messed up before.”

Akaashi’s gaze turns contemplative.

“I didn’t pay as much attention to the course as I should have,” he continues. “I could use a refresher.”

“Are we gonna have to, like, retake college courses or something?” Bokuto asks.

“No, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi looks immeasurably tired. “If you rendered someone unable to talk, however, a potion would likely suffice for solving the problem.”

A potion?

“It’s that simple?”

Something unpleasant is building in his stomach, painful and burning; it tastes like regret. Shouldn’t he have been able to figure it out himself?

Akaashi stares down into his cup, his brows pulled together.

“Only a select few people specialize in potions.” Akaashi doesn’t look up. “So don’t let it get to you. We can do the research together.”

A gentle hand tugs at his arm. Bokuto realizes two things in quick succession: that he’s gripping the table hard enough to rattle it and that Akaashi’s reached over to still him.

The _something_ loosens in his chest, tendrils of shame leaving with his next exhale. Akaashi hasn’t retracted his hand, not quite yet, and Bokuto gets that same feeling as when a needle is in his hand and he’s allowed to start working on someone: a jolt through his spine and an inexhaustible need to push harder, pour his heart into it.

(There is a catch to this, though. Always a catch.)

He meets Akaashi’s eyes. “You’re right! Let’s go to the library, I can totally show you the way!”

“I have a phone. You don’t need to lead me around.”

“Okay, but you gotta admit, that piece of glass we saw in the last alleyway was cool! It was—”

“—Shaped like a cat, yes, I know. You’ve told this story four times now.”

“Will the fifth time make it cooler?”

“No.”

———

Bokuto doesn’t go to the library too often, but there’s something calming about the high ceilings and faint lighting of the main building. A little boring, maybe, because he’d rather be in the tattoo parlor, drawing up elaborate designs and listening to the droning sound of the needle, but some people would probably like it.

Watching Akaashi enter the library, though, he thinks he can understand. His eyes light up as he takes in dark linoleum flooring and bookshelves that stretch up. The light filtering in through wide windows makes the whole building seem muted, almost.

Bokuto feels like a blanket’s been draped over his shoulders whenever he comes here, all soothing and quiet, and he understands. Calm, composed Akaashi would probably like a place like this. He almost wants to stay all day, but the parlor and the churning of his gut draw him away from the science section and the urge to settle into a bean bag chair like he would have under normal circumstances.

Three beats, followed by one. A deep breath.

Akaashi’s already waiting at the counter. Bokuto moves to follow when a stack of books barely misses his foot, slamming into the ground right in front of him. The culprit is a meter above his head, silver hair flying in every direction as he spits out apologies so fast Bokuto can hardly register what he’s saying.

It’s not a big deal anyway, not when Akaashi’s full attention is on him, asking him if he’s alright with more than the usual monotone of his voice.

Maybe Bokuto should be more concerned.

A few meters away, the head librarian’s hands are clasped together as he apologizes profusely. The assistant librarian floats two feet above the ground behind him, rubbing his neck with a sheepish grin.

“Lev is…relatively new at his job.” The head librarian ignores the dismayed yelp that leaves the assistant librarian’s mouth. “He’s awful at controlling his balance when hovering in the air. I’m sorry again.”

“Yaku-san, give me more credit than that! I almost got to the top shelf without dropping a book yesterday!”

“Lev, you nearly gave someone a concussion. Shut up.”

Pouting, Lev disappears behind a bookshelf. Yaku turns back towards them, the look on his face too fatigued to have gone over this once.

“I’m sorry again. He can fly, but he has the coordination of a newborn. The library’s trying to use him as an effective replacement for ladders, but…”

Four bookshelves away, a _crash_ can be heard.

“I swear,” Yaku snaps, pushing himself from the counter. His eyes are narrowed, his mouth pulled downwards, and his tone betrays none of that. “I’ll be happy to help you guys after I kill this idiot.”

Waving him off, Akaashi turns back to the counter. Bokuto nods, staring after Yaku as he grabs a ladder with enough force to tear off a rung and marches into the nearest shelf passageway.

“We’ll have to make a specific search for potions that reverse the effects,” Akaashi says. “You do have your library card, right, Bokuto-san?”

There’s nothing quite like being the target of Akaashi’s hard stare as he searches his wallet for a card he knows for a fact he doesn’t have.

“Haha, well, funny story—”

“If the story ends with you not in possession of your library card, it’s not funny.”

Yaku comes back before Bokuto can reply. For the better, because Akaashi could kill someone with that look. 

(Not even hypothetically! Bokuto would bet money on it.)

“Sorry again. He’s a handful. Did the two of you need something?” Yaku’s back at the counter, looking mildly less irritated than before he left.

“We’re looking for books on how to reverse the effects of permanent magical applications, especially related to tattoos. And a library card.”

“I’ll need an ID for the library card, and I’ll make a search right now,” Yaku says, turning towards the computer.

He spins the monitor around after a few seconds.

“Here’s a list of books we have that relate to the topic. Let me know if any of these are what you’re looking for and I’ll have Lev get it.”

Yaku winces like it physically pains him to admit aloud that he relies on Lev, but he doesn’t correct his statement as he leaves.

“They’re an interesting case,” Akaashi says as he scans the screen, scrolling down every so often.

“All they really do is yell at each other,” Bokuto chimes in, watching from over Akaashi’s shoulder. “But they work well together. Yaku used to use the ladder all the time.”

“The ladder?” Akaashi glances over his shoulder.

“My senior year of high school, he became the assistant librarian here and had to use a bunch of ladders to get books from the highest shelves, ‘cause he doesn’t have a power. Once Lev joined the year after, his ability to fly made ladders useless. Wait, not useless. What’s the word? Repetitive?”

“Redundant?” Akaashi supplies.

“Yeah! Lev’s obviously not great, though. He has a lot to learn, I guess.”

“Lev almost gave you a concussion earlier. He definitely has a lot to learn.”

“Not just that! Well, yeah, but Yaku basically has this whole library memorized from top to bottom. It’s pretty awesome.”

Akaashi hasn’t looked at the screen for a while now. He’s staring at Bokuto like he’s just told the world’s most riveting story, and it feels a little discomfiting, but mostly like he’s floating a little, himself.

Bokuto doesn’t quite get it.

“Have you found a book yet, Akaashi?” he asks, because it makes more sense than the _hey, hey, why are you looking at me like that?_ on the tip of his tongue.

He really wants to ask, though. What reason would there be to stare? Unless—

“Agh, is there something on my face?” That’s got to be it. “You can’t let me walk around like this, Akaashi, it’s bad for my image!”

Sighing, Akaashi turns back to the monitor.

“There’s nothing on your face, Bokuto-san. And as far as I know, there’s no image to protect.”

“Cold, Akaashi!”

“Would you rather I lie to you?”

“I’d rather you back me up sometimes!”

“That’s not going to happen in the next twenty minutes. Would you like to help me find a book?”

“That doesn’t sound like backing me up, Akaashi.”

But Bokuto does settle down, eventually. If he spends a couple minutes weighing the pros and cons of giving in and finally asking Akaashi what he had been thinking about, no one has to know.

———

In the end, they select three books to check out.

“Two of those are near the top shelf,” Yaku mutters, annoyed. “I’ll have to—”

“I can do it, Yaku-san!” Lev says, leaning on the counter and looking at Yaku with an expression somewhat close to awe. A desire to be noticed?

(It’s painfully familiar. Bokuto, at least, can dismiss this thought as unimportant.)

He towers over the rest of them even on the ground, with long legs and a fierce grip on the counter. Glancing up at Yaku, Lev’s gaze gives away far too much eagerness for what will amount to a resounding no.

Predictably, Yaku looks unimpressed. Even Bokuto could see that coming. 

“Where’s the magical applications section, then?”

“Somewhere around the bottom left?”

Yaku could not sigh any deeper if he tried. “743.984 KTR. Where is it, Lev?”

“Bottom right?” Lev guesses.

“Around the center of the library, seven rows in. If you studied the Dewey Decimal system like I told you to, you’d at least be able to make a more accurate guess.”

“But it’s just so _dull_ ,” Lev tries, but Yaku’s focused glare cuts him off.

“Go get the book,” Yaku continues, stunning the rest of them into silence. “With your height, you should be able to reach it.”

“It’s okay,” Lev begins, patting Yaku’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of what you can’t because you’re—”

Narrowing his eyes, Yaku swats his arm away. Lev lets out an awkward hybrid of a scream and a hiss as he dodges backwards.

“I’m off now!” he yells unnecessarily as he walks away.

“He’s going into the wrong passageway, that idiot.” Yaku rolls his eyes.

Oddly enough, the corner of Yaku’s lips just barely twitch upwards. If Bokuto recalls correctly, Lev seems happiest when sorting. Did Yaku give him that assignment on purpose to raise his mood?

People read that much into the little things to make someone else happy. The image of an empty classroom flashes in his head, loud in the silence.

He can feel Akaashi’s gaze, bearing down on the side of his head. Bokuto thinks of jazz music and a quiet request to help, and breathes out.

“He should be back soon, assuming he doesn’t somehow get lost in here,” Yaku adds, leaning against the counter like Lev had. “Lev’s done it before. I swear, he’s getting better at navigating the library, but sometimes it feels like I’m babysitting him.”

(Bokuto had read about unconsciously copying something someone else had done in one of Kuroo’s textbooks, on a dark night when he had been helping him cram for an important test. Why Kuroo had minored in psychology, Bokuto will never know, but the word was...mirroring? Maybe? Something along those lines.

It’s a sign for a lot of things. Certainly closeness. Bokuto’s not sure Yaku can hear the rounded edges in his tone, dangerously close to being affectionate. Attached, at the very least.)

Akaashi’s holding a hand in front of his mouth, visible only to Bokuto. He’s smiling, small and real and warm, and he figures Akaashi knows, too.

“He seems to be getting there,” Bokuto says and Yaku barks out a short laugh.

“If he could sit still long enough to memorize the system, he’d be a great librarian.” Yaku’s full of confidence with words that seem like they shouldn’t apply to someone who almost dropped a stack of books earlier. “And if he’d stop calling me short, he’d be tolerable to be around. Honestly, he can fly. Did he need to have such long legs?”

Lev bounds back to the counter, armed with a gleeful smile and the three books tucked under his arm. Akaashi begins checking out without a word.

“I’m back! Did you miss me?” 

Lev’s far too loud for a library and Yaku’s seconds away from drop kicking him. At least, until Lev sidesteps and rests a hand against Yaku’s right shoulder, leaning heavily against his left.

“Lev, we work at a library, learn to be quiet,” Yaku says, making no move to push Lev off his shoulder.

Lev just smiles at him, wide and self-assured, and Bokuto places a hand on Akaashi’s back, steering them towards the entrance.

“Thank you for all the help,” he says loudly as the door swings closed.

Bokuto drops his hand from Akaashi’s back, but it still feels impossibly hot. The sun bearing down on their backs doesn’t justify this; it’s not even close to summer.

Akaashi’s voice is soft. “It felt like we were intruding.”

Bokuto nods. “D’you think they’re together yet?”

Akaashi’s already shaking his head. “I don’t think the head librarian is aware.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Yaku.” Who is many things—steady, observant, and reliable making up only a small portion of Yaku’s good qualities—but sorting out his feelings towards a wildcard like Lev would be quite a departure from the consistency he’s used to.

Akaashi looks up at the skies, pink and purple and fading into navy blue against the flickering streetlights.

“We’re done for the day.” Though he knows this is coming, Bokuto still feels an unmistakable pull of disappointment. But Akaashi keeps talking. “Where would you like to meet tomorrow?”

The buzz of conversation fills the streets, office lights in skyscrapers begin to turn on, a stark gold against the incoming darkness, and Akaashi has said that he will come back. This isn’t nodding and smiling.

“You’re staying?” He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I mean—”

“We haven’t even gotten started on the potion yet. Why would I leave?”

“I thought you’d just give me the books and leave, or something,” he admits, turning towards the street. A car passes, and he lets the wind flow into him, weighing him down like an anchor. “I wouldn’t have minded. You’ve done a lot already.”

“I don’t want to leave quite yet.” Akaashi’s moved to stand beside him, head turned in his direction. “It’s not as taxing being around you as it is around other people.”

“What do you mean?”

That makes no sense. Bokuto’s spent his whole life being told that he should just stop and breathe, that he’s far too temperamental for his own good—and for other people. If anything, he should be overwhelming Akaashi, shouldn’t he?

For a moment, they stand there, two near-strangers in a moving city sizing the other up. Akaashi’s looking at him, a blatant stare Bokuto doesn’t want to meet. He holds his ground somehow.

Gah, he’s too curious; Bokuto meets his gaze. It’s every bit as serious and searching as he expects from Akaashi, but there’s some confusion, too.

Bokuto’s disoriented himself, because they are two near-strangers standing closer to the road than they should be, and all he wants to do is stay there. It’s better than a blanket; it’s like he could reach out and hold the world in his palm, energy as endless as the city moving through his body. The feeling is nice. It’s warm.

“Never mind,” Akaashi mutters, stepping away. “It’s not something I could sufficiently put into words. Not yet. See you tomorrow, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto watches Akaashi walk away for a second time, dark hair swaying in the wind as he turns a corner and disappears from view. He stares in that direction for a long, long time. Akaashi’s goodbye, however strange, hadn’t felt like an ending. Not at all.

Later, after he gets home, his movements more sluggish than usual, he examines the first book. A small piece of paper flutters out as he opens to the table of contents.

In careful handwriting, ten digits are recorded on the piece of paper.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good lord i am so so sorry, so much real life stuff got in the way. but it is here and it is done and i hope you enjoy!

The night starts with a flurry of texts (mostly from Bokuto), an agreement to make a list of ingredients and a meeting at the park.

(It also includes scrolling past a list of distinctive blocked numbers that Bokuto spends a little too much time staring at, but that’s irrelevant.)

Bokuto spends an hour pouring over the chapter of the book dealing with body modifications. Thankfully, most types of tattoo-induced effects can be solved with a single potion, given that he changes the amount of ingredients depending on what the effect is. For rendering someone mute, he needs to lower the dosage of honey to five milliliters, and increase the amount of whole basil leaves he adds to seven. It’ll be relevant in context, hopefully.

He records everything in his neatest handwriting (which isn’t saying much, but he tries) and falls into bed. It’s pushed against the window, so he watches shadows dance on his ceiling as his mind runs its course.

Small memories stick as he drifts further and further to unconsciousness. A smile, small and hidden and just for him. A hand on his arm, a touch concerned. The shared gaze, as confusing as it was pleasant.

Huh. Bokuto figures he can think it over in the morning.

———

He can’t, in fact, think it over in the morning because he’s late to their meeting by three minutes that _may_ have stretched into ten when he saw a cat in an alleyway.

His cheeks are red when he reaches the park, huffing as he bends over to put his hands on his thighs. Akaashi sits at his usual desk, legs crossed as he raises an eyebrow.

“Bokuto-san, why are you late.” Coming from Akaashi, it’s less of a question and more of a demand, and if there’s one thing Bokuto picked up from school, it’s rhetorical questions he shouldn’t actually answer.

“Sorry, Akaashi!” Bokuto shouts, deflecting. “I have the list here, thanks for waiting!”

Akaashi purses his lips. Maybe he should have answered that question, after all.

“You don’t have to tell me why you were thirty minutes late,” Akaashi begins, and _wow_ , he had spent thirty whole minutes chasing after that cat? He should have gotten Akaashi breakfast or something, no one could be mad on a full stomach. Except Iwaizumi on bad days, but messing up a week-long sketch would make anyone mad.

Akaashi’s still talking.

“...at least tell me,” he finishes.

Bokuto doesn’t have the heart (or the guts) to ask Akaashi to repeat himself, so he settles for nodding vigorously.

“Right! Sorry! It won’t happen again!” Bokuto yells.

Akaashi hums in response and holds out his hand. Bokuto stares blankly before perking up and pulling the paper out of his pocket.

“The ingredients are kinda weird, but I think I know where we can find them,” he says, nodding his head wisely as Akaashi scans the list.

“You know where we can find fallen stardust?” Akaashi asks as he hands the list back.

“Didn’t I tell you I explore the city? I find all sorts of cool shops!”

“I assumed that meant you got lost often and didn’t want to admit it.”

Akaashi’s more on the nose than Bokuto wants to admit, but he bristles anyway. “What? No, I don’t!”

“You didn’t know if we were entering a restaurant or a tire shop yesterday,” Akaashi points out, unrelenting.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that,” Bokuto says, turning on his heel and heading out of the park.

“I did,” Akaashi cuts in, “and please make sure you know where we’re going this time, Bokuto-san.”

———

Three hours pass before they end up in front of the shop. 

In Bokuto’s defense, the shop’s exterior has changed from the last time he visited: the windowsills are filled with a colorful assortment of flowers and the door has a proper sign this time.

Akaashi’s glaring at his phone. “According to my GPS, this trip should have taken us one hour at most.”

“Hey, you got to explore the city, right? You gotta admit it can be pretty cool.”

“Bokuto-san.”

“Right, sorry.”

Without another word, Bokuto pushes open the door to the shop, a bell chiming as they enter.

The interior is split into three different displays: the first is made up of aisles of assorted novelties down the middle, stretching from the front of the shop to the back. Each novelty is accompanied with a little card that says what it does, the descriptions ranging from normal to questionable. Against the left wall, the second display boasts herbs, both lined up against the shelves and hanging from the ceiling. The third display, resting against the right wall, are rows and rows of refrigerators.

A man stands at the front, one hand splayed on the counter as he gives them a relaxed smile. He’s wearing a white apron, the green shirt underneath just barely poking out. _Yahaba_ , the name tag reads.

“Hello,” Yahaba says. “What can I get for you today?”

“We want to create a potion. According to my companion, we can get a fair amount of the ingredients here,” Akaashi calls back. “Could you look over our list?”

Yahaba nods. “Of course. If you’re trying to make a potion, we’ll probably have everything you need in stock.”

When they reach the counter, Bokuto’s in an awe-induced daze, his head swiveling around every few seconds to take in the shop. Akaashi’s mouth twitches as he pushes Bokuto to the front.

“Apologies.” Akaashi hands over the list. “He’s most likely enamored with half of your inventory by now.”

Yahaba shakes his head. “It’s—”

“Yahaba, you dumb shit, you forgot to take out the catnips,” a voice calls from the back.

Yahaba’s lips curl into a sneer.

“Shut the hell up, Kyoutani,” he hisses, spinning around. “We have customers.”

The voice snorts. “Oh? So why the fuck are you swearing, then?”

The door swings open and a man with short blond hair steps out. He’s glowering in Yahaba’s general direction, and he would probably be scarier if he wasn’t wearing a light-green apron while resting a box of (presumably) catnip on his hip.

“Seriously, how hard is it to—?”

His eyes land on Bokuto and Akaashi.

“Oh. Sorry.” Kyoutani gives them a short nod before his attention jumps to Yahaba. “Just put out the damn catnips next time.”

“Yeah, I’ll be sure to pay attention to your precious catnips,” Yahaba retorts. “But look at this list for a second.”

Kyoutani puts the box on the floor and leans in. There’s something instinctual about the way he steps into Yahaba’s space, like the action is a comfort to the both of them. Yahaba doesn’t move, allowing Kyoutani to rest his head on his shoulder, and their voices drop to a whisper as they scan the list. The hands that aren’t holding the list are interlocked and it almost feels like Bokuto’s intruding again.

He glances at Akaashi. Just a quick, subtle look, enough to determine that he’s wearing the same coat from yesterday, and his hands are relaxed against his sides, and—Akaashi’s meeting his gaze evenly.

Bokuto reads out the plea to move from Akaashi’s questioning gaze, and takes an agreeing step away from the counter.

The entire exchange plays out like a super-secret conversation, and something light takes hold in Bokuto’s chest at the realization that he had one of those with _Akaashi_. If he asked politely, maybe they could move on to hand signals next. That’d be so _cool_.

“Bokuto-san.” Akaashi’s already at the other end of the store. “What are you doing?”

“Hand signals,” Bokuto says, instead of replying with something that makes sense. “They’d be so cool, don’t you think, Akaashi?”

Akaashi nods like he understands. “They would be. In the meantime, help me look for honey. It should be in one of these refrigerators.”

There’s no real reason why Bokuto searches through the same refrigerators as Akaashi. By all means, they should be searching through refrigerators on opposite sides of the wall for efficiency’s sake, but Bokuto’s hands brush against Akaashi’s as he reached in to grab a vial and he doesn’t want to move away.

This is, of course, normal behavior. Bokuto isn’t _attached_ , of course he isn’t.

Akaashi’s made no move to step away, gaze unyielding and calculating.

(There’s always a _catch_. He has to remember.)

“Sorry it took us so long, but we found the ingredients you wanted.” Yahaba’s holding the list in his hand when they get back to the counter, Kyoutani lounging at the edge. “Fallen stardust was hard to find, though. We’re almost out of stock.”

Kyoutani’s head is propped up against his arm and he’s staring at Bokuto with narrowed eyes. Far too annoyed, as if he knows exactly what he’s done. Which is impossible. Should be impossible.

“Makes me wonder what the hell kind of potion you need it for.”

Bokuto’s hands clench into fists. He doesn’t notice until Akaashi straightens up, his jaw tense, almost as if he’s irritated. Almost as if he’s—

“I need to undo my mistake, is all,” Bokuto says, distracted.

Kyoutani shrugs and heads into the back.

“Sorry about that.” Yahaba rubs the back of his neck, wincing. “Collecting fallen stardust is his job, so he gets annoyed when people ask for it.”

Kyoutani emerges and dumps three different bags onto the counter, the gesture almost careless.

“Hurry up and do your thing or whatever,” he grumbles, leaning against the nearest wall.

Yahaba grins at him with a smug sort of gratitude. Kyoutani huffs and rolls his eyes, the gesture somehow feeling routine.

Yahaba puts both his hands on a bag, staring downwards with an odd sort of intensity. His hands bunch up against the paper as his mouth moves, reciting incantations Bokuto can’t hear, and the paper begins to glow. Small amounts of light emanate from the bag, and when Bokuto moves to pick two up, he’s unfazed by the burst of heat when he makes contact.

“I have the ability to enhance the effects of any sort of ingredient, so long as I make physical contact with it,” Yahaba explains, stepping away from the counter. “All of your ingredients should be twice as effective now.”

Kyoutani scoffs. “Did they ask? You’re just fuckin’ bragging at this point.”

Yahaba scoffs, ignoring the redness on his cheeks. Bokuto can’t help but think of a surprise summer storm as he slams a fist into the counter.

“Damnit, Kyoutani, you know some of our customers ask!”

Bokuto’s not exactly the brightest person in the room, certainly not compared to two shop owners and the terrifying force of energy that is Akaashi Keiji standing next to him. He’s not the brightest by a long shot, but Yahaba stares at Kyoutani with the intensity of someone who either wants to shove him outside the shop or close the gap. Maybe both? The two aren’t mutually exclusive, according to all the movies he’s watched.

Then again, the hero gets rejected in a significant amount of those movies, and the way Yahaba looks at Kyoutani is the furthest thing from rejection.

White-hot sparks of not-quite-jealousy burns through his veins, setting his nerves on edge. If his emotions are one thing, they aren’t _quiet_ , and Bokuto doesn’t know what to do with the empty feeling in the palm of his hand.

He doesn’t get it, though. All that’s next to him is Akaashi.

Shaking his head, he attaches a wide smile onto his face, readjusting the two bags in his arms.

“Thanks,” Bokuto says too loudly, judging by the look at Akaashi’s face. “We should go now, though. Got a potion to make, and all—”

But Akaashi’s away from the counter before he can blink, reaching up towards one of the herbs situated in a flower pot hanging from the ceiling.

“Yahaba-san,” he begins. “Does your power happen to work on herbs?”

Yahaba lights up with the question; even Kyoutani doesn’t comment as he walks over to the herb Akaashi’s standing near.

“It does.” Yahaba’s voice is filled with glee. “The last owner of this shop started growing herbs, so I decided to continue the tradition. I have a different method, but I still keep them alive.”

“You and your plants again,” Kyoutani mutters, but the corners of his mouth pull upwards.

“Lemon balm is a good choice for easing stress,” Yahaba continues, turning to Akaashi. “How much would you like?”

“Enough for a few days.” A sliver of light hits Akaashi’s hair _just right_ and Bokuto’s not really listening until he opens his mouth again. “I’m not planning on staying in the city for longer than that amount of time.”

There’s the catch. Bokuto had been waiting for the other shoe to drop (or however the saying goes) so he’s not sure why an ugly emotion he can’t place spreads through his body. He had been expecting it; why is he so surprised?

Akaashi hasn’t followed him down the aisle, not yet, and he shoos away the part of his mind that whispers all sorts of doubts because that doesn’t make any sense—Akaashi has one-third of the supplies. He wouldn’t just run off like that. He said so himself that he’d help with the potion, that he wouldn’t leave quite yet. So what if there’s a tangible deadline to Akaashi’s time? He’s just a stranger. It’s not like Bokuto’s attached.

Footsteps register in his mind, light and harried.

“Sorry about the wait,” Akaashi says as he falls in step next to Bokuto. “I haven’t had the chance to buy lemon balm for a few months.”

“It’s fine!” Bokuto stares at the front door. “We’re not in a rush. Well, no, we’re in a rush, but it’s not super urgent, y’know?”

“I am aware. Next on our list is finding a place to create the potion. Do you have any ideas?”

Bokuto’s more of an in-the-moment kind of thinker. Case in point: he’s put absolutely no thought into the actual process of creating the potion.

“I, uh, didn’t really think about that, whoops.”

“I figured.” Akaashi’s tone is mercilessly blunt. “I did the research last night. All we truly need is a kitchen and a place to store our ingredients. Any sort of workshop you have will suffice.”

“My apartment works!” Bokuto’s mouth kind of moves on its own a lot of the time. Like right now. “My kitchen might be big enough? Eh, we could probably shove some things in the fridge if it doesn’t work out.”

Akaashi freezes.

“That was a joke,” Bokuto adds.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Akaashi says, subdued.

Fractured lights of the city filter in from the front door and reflect in Akaashi’s eyes; his brows are furrowed, his gaze is cautious, and Bokuto can’t change his mind after that.

Snorting, he pushes the front door open.

“C’mon, Akaashi, I offered! It’s not intruding if I invite you in!”

Akaashi lingers inside for a moment longer. Something in Bokuto’s expression must have convinced him, because his mouth hardens as he gives a tiny nod and steps outside.

“Very well. Lead the way.”

———

In the end, Bokuto had completely forgotten about the state of his apartment.

When he opens the door, the first thing he registers are textbooks strewn all over the coffee table in the living room. He lets out a low groan.

“Is everything okay?” Akaashi asks as he toes off his shoes.

Bokuto’s fingers curl into the bags as he heads to the kitchen, away from the living room at the far left. “Yeah, sorry, I just forgot how much of a mess I left, since I was late and all. I wasn’t expecting visitors. I promise I don’t live like this all the time!”

Akaashi’s already shaking his head. “It’s alright. I believe you.”

The kitchen, though fairly modest and equipped with far too many cabinets for someone who ends up buying takeout most of the time, is workable. The granite counter is large enough, and Bokuto can’t help but grin as he lays the last of the ingredients out.

“Bokuto-san, if you have the time to stand around, please lay out the cookware.”

 _Akaashi’s his usual self_ , Bokuto muses as he crouches down to get the pots. Something about being able to reach out and state that he knows someone enough to see their usual self is dizzying. 

“How are we gonna do this?” Bokuto straightens as he finishes setting up. “You can measure and I can pour the ingredients in? Hey, hey, wait! Let me mix! Akaashi, _please_ , mixing is, like, the best thing ever—”

“I can’t promise anything,” Akaashi mutters, his face turned away. “We might not even have to mix anything in the first place. We’ll see.”

———

Roughly three hours into the process, Bokuto’s had no actual spills (he refuses to count the seven close calls). It’s a new personal record, though Akaashi seems unimpressed.

(He really should be impressed, though. His old record was two spills, eight close calls. Even Kuroo had looked proud when he finished, that time.

It’s not even that Bokuto’s bad at cooking. He just forgets where he’s placed a pan whenever he pulls out his phone sometimes. Not a big deal.)

“Are you sure we don’t need more honey?” Bokuto asks. He’s lost track of how many times he’s asked, but Akaashi‘s probably keeping count, given the annoyed glance he sends him.

“Yes, I’m sure. I reread the section to be certain, the measurements we took are enough.”

“Gah.” Bokuto sighs, adding a few basil leaves to the pot (he had been told to ‘wing the ingredients’, which is only helpful in theory).

Akaashi frowns down at the textbook he had recovered from Bokuto’s living room.

“We’ll have to make enough to ensure that there’s leftovers.” Akaashi looks into the pot. “It’s not half-full yet. Tomorrow it is, then.”

Standing in this sort-of-small kitchen, leaning against a counter as he watches a dark-haired not-really-stranger chop up herbs is doing something to his head. Add in the slivers of sunlight cutting across the kitchen floor and the faint humming, and Bokuto could almost be tricked into convincing himself he’s fallen into a new normalcy.

Wait.

“Hey, Akaashi.” Bokuto’s voice is hushed. Deliberately so, because he doesn’t want to mess this up. “Is that you?”

The reply is too swift. “Of course not.”

Bokuto grins, pressing a hand into the counter as he hunches over and turns to see Akaashi’s face.

Akaashi’s head is tilted forward, his hair falling into his eyes like he’s trying to hide, but his hair can’t hide the way his hands curl, all rigid and twitchy; can’t hide the slight redness on his cheeks that Bokuto manages to catch because he’s been leaning forward, probably a little too close for comfort.

But Akaashi just stares at him, blinking owlishly like he woke up and ended up here, in this apartment with him, by complete accident. And, well. He sort of did, if Bokuto’s being honest, but he’s grinning too much to care.

“Whatever song you were humming, it’s really pretty, y’know? Well, of course you have to know, you’re the one—anyways! You can keep going, if you want.”

His apartment’s always been a little too silent, anyway. The strange emptiness comes back, stronger this time, and all that’s next to him is Akaashi.

Akaashi doesn’t keep humming, but the corners of his mouth are curled up, and Bokuto counts that as a victory.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says as he moves the pot over to the cooktop. “I’ve had this thought before, but you’re so interesting. It’s nice.”

 _Interesting_ sounds like a good thing in Akaashi’s mouth, all warm and smooth and genuine. It eases whatever had been building up in Bokuto’s chest.

“I have cooler things to say than that!” Bokuto cries, because he can’t say anything else without losing face. Not when he’s holding back a huge smile.

“We’ll be here for a while as the potion simmers. I have time.”

“You’ll have to repay the favor,” Bokuto mutters as he rests his elbows on the counter.

“I’ll consider it,” Akaashi replies easily.

The afternoon light turns into burning oranges and reds as the streaks of sunlight seeping through the blinds grow longer and the shadows grow deeper. Bokuto is aware of none of it, not until Akaashi moves to get something and his face is bathed in the twilight, glowing; his eyes, too, become piercing.

As they take turns stirring the pot (because mixing _had_ been needed in the end), Bokuto learns a fair bit that day: Akaashi’s more of a classical music guy, but he can listen to most songs (and Bokuto gets him to agree to give jazz a try); Akaashi doesn’t like sweet things, turning away Bokuto’s offer of vanilla ice cream and the excess honey with a pinched expression; Akaashi’s the type of person to listen to podcasts, and he prefers taking walks in the woods (technically, he prefers being in the woods in general, something Bokuto can understand in concept but can hardly wrap his mind around).

And the sunset looks good on him, too. Objectively, of course.

“I wish I brought my camera,” Akaashi murmurs as he reaches Bokuto’s side. “The view of the sunset here is decent.”

“Just decent? Oh c’mon, Akaashi, give my apartment some credit.” Bokuto’s smiling into his hand again, until another question occurs to him. “Wait, you have a camera? Is it a professional camera? Hey, hey, is it related to your job? Say, what’s your—”

“I figured a question regarding my profession was coming,” Akaashi says, a wry smile playing at his lips. “I’m a freelance photographer, but I only travel to cities for clients. Or to restock on supplies.”

“Did you have a client this time?” Bokuto asks, awed.

“No.” Akaashi shrugs. “My computer had technical issues, so I decided to stay in the city until it was repaired.”

“Cities are pretty cool, y’know,” Bokuto says. “Why don’t you stay for longer?”

“The people.” At this, Akaashi meets his eyes. “Cities are hard to enjoy when everyone’s emotions surround you on a daily basis.”

Taking solitary walks in the woods doesn’t sound half-bad now. Here’s the catch, sure, but Akaashi suffering because he chooses to stay in the city is worse than watching an acquaintance turn into someone he waves to in the halls on occasion. What a terrible friendship this would be, for one person to be so uncomfortable all the time.

“I didn’t think about that,” he says honestly. “You probably hated that I dragged out getting to our destinations so much, huh?”

Akaashi, who had been in the process of dumping the last of the herbs into the pot, stills.

“Actually,” he says slowly, “I meant what I said yesterday. It’s not as taxing being around you.”

Bokuto’s brain shuts down. 

“That doesn’t make any sense,” the word slip from his mouth before he can think better of it. “I feel tons of things all the time? Shouldn’t that be a lot of pressure on you?”

“You express your emotions with such intensity that other people barely register. When exploring the city with you, I’m able to take in my surroundings for once. It’s refreshing.”

But Bokuto’s frowning. “It’s not a good thing, though.”

“What—?”

“So I can make magical tattoos, right,” Bokuto starts, and it almost feels like a different conversation altogether, the way his nails dig into his palms. “And the tattoos, they’re really affected by my emotions! Which is…” _Bad_ , he wants to say. _Really bad, because I was upset when I did Kuroo’s tattoo, and he looked up and couldn’t speak and that’s all my fault._ “Which isn’t great when I don’t feel good.”

Something’s prying at his hands, forcing his fingers apart. A warmth replaces the space, a foreign smoothness against his skin.

Bokuto intertwines their fingers, and all that’s next to him is Akaashi. In the fading sun, the silence feels less empty, and he breathes in.

———

The next day, Akaashi’s finishing up the second batch for the potion when the devastating (and probably obvious) realization of _I’ll have to visit the tattoo parlor to fix this_ hits Bokuto, and he nearly drops his pan.

He catches it at the last minute, though. His record of an accident-free session remains safe for now. Akaashi’s record of not looking worried every time Bokuto picks something up, however, is shattered.

“Bokuto-san, please be careful.” From the slant of Akaashi’s eyebrows, Bokuto would guess this is around the seventh time he’s said it, give or take.

Bokuto waves him off as he places the pan in the sink. He should have thought about this earlier, but there are a lot of things he should have put more thought into. It’s too late to do anything but jump in head first.

“Hey, Akaashi?” Bokuto prompts. Akaashi tilts his head in his direction, and Bokuto continues, “I kinda just remembered that I have to go back to the tattoo parlor to clear this whole thing up, and—”

“Yes, I’ll go with you.” There’s no trace of hesitation in Akaashi’s voice. “We should prioritize finishing the potion, so—”

“Wait, what?” Bokuto interrupts.

Akaashi blinks. “Were you not going to ask me to accompany you to the tattoo parlor?”

Bokuto’s too stunned to do more than shake his head. Akaashi had agreed, just like that? It’s not like his theoretical question would have been a huge favor or anything, given Akaashi’s current track record of doing way too much to help him, but still.

Breaking eye contact, Akaashi turns back to the counter. Long fingers run over knuckles with an almost frenetic energy, and Bokuto can relate, on some fundamental level that doesn’t quite make sense. He’s about two seconds away from shaking Akaashi’s shoulders if he didn’t think he’d be killed for doing so. Any idea that involves stopping this building tension and making contact with Akaashi are good in Bokuto’s book, really.

Speaking of normal reactions to questions, Bokuto should also get on that.

“I mean, I’d like you to!” Bokuto cuts in emphatically. “It’s not what I was going to ask, but this is cool, too! It’s like that one saying, the one with horses. You take what you can get, or something.”

“‘Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth’?” Akaashi fills in.

The tension works its way out of Akaashi’s body. He’s stopped messing with his hands, at least.

“Yeah! I knew you were smart, ‘Kaashi.” Bokuto freezes. It’s like his body had known he screwed up immediately. He’d praise himself for being so in-tune with his thoughts, but, well.

“I wasn’t aware we were on nickname basis, Bokuto-san.” 

There’s something like a teasing edge in Akaashi’s voice. That, or he’s getting ready to lunge at him. Bokuto hasn’t been able to tell the difference just yet.

“Sorry, wow, no idea where that came from!”

Which is a lie, sort of. Standing in his kitchen during the sunset, Akaashi’s hand in his, the nickname had been resting on his tongue. At the time, Bokuto had been unwilling to let it escape because nicknames imply attachment, and he couldn’t afford to build attachment.

Guess it’s a bit late for that. Not that Bokuto minds, but it would have been nice to protect himself from the sting later on.

“I don’t actually mind,” Akaashi continues, and huh, maybe that had been a teasing tone after all? Bokuto’s getting better at the whole _reading Akaashi_ thing, and if the thought makes his toes curl up in excitement, he keeps it to himself.

“Well, anyways!” Even Bokuto winces at the echo. So much for trying to subtly change the topic. “I was actually going to ask if you had any advice on, uh, getting back into something you were going to quit?”

“You were going to quit your job?” Akaashi asks. “May I ask why?”

“Ah, well, it has everything to do with the whole messing-up-while-doing-a-tattoo thing,” Bokuto mutters. “Not my finest moment. Might be one of my worst, actually, but I have to fix this, and if I get my job back, I have no idea how I’ll jump back into the swing of things if I did so badly last time, y’know?”

“Your talent and hard work hasn’t gone away just because you took a leave of absence.” Bokuto bites back the fact that no such leave of absence exists. “You will surely be alright when you return to your job, but in the meantime…”

“You can’t just trail off like that, Akaashi! You gotta tell me now!”

Akaashi sighs, somehow both long-suffering and apprehensive at once. “I was going to suggest that you try out a design on me to set aside the nerves, but I’m being presumptuous. You can ignore it entirely.”

Bokuto, of course, does not ignore it entirely.

“Wait, are you serious? I’d love to, but only if you’re okay with it—”

“It would be unfair of me to retract my offer seconds after making it.”

Always to the point. Bokuto smiles, wide and eager, before pushing at Akaashi’s elbow and leading him out of the kitchen.

“We’ll come back for the potion later,” he says against impending protests. “My room’s right next to the living room anyway, it’s okay! Besides, the pot’s on simmer or something, it’s not like the apartment’s gonna burn down.”

“‘The pot’s on simmer or something’ is not your most inspiring statement,” Akaashi counters. 

He’s pushed out of the kitchen anyway.

———

“Are you sure you don’t have an idea?” Bokuto asks.

“Aside from the location being on my wrist, I’m certain I have no preference,” Akaashi repeats.

Bokuto’s room is less messy than he had expected it to be, but the bed had been unmade and papers were scattered all over the surface of the desk when they had walked in.

Well, hey. It could have been worse. Akaashi could have seen Bokuto’s stash of shoujo manga, the series he always tells people his niece bought him when in fact, it had just been Bokuto, spending two whole weekends sniffling in the living room because the protagonist moved away after spending three volumes gathering the courage to confess, and it was just _so_ _sad_.

(Bokuto’s always been told to count his blessings, after all. The hidden manga collection is one. The sketchbook in his hands, gifted to him by his mother on a rare good day is another. Akaashi sitting on his bed, back against the wall and his knees tucked close to his chest, one hand twisted into the owl-patterned sheets is a third.)

Twirling a pencil in his hand, Bokuto props the sketchbook in front of him as he stretches out over the bed.

“I’ll sketch something out, then!” He can’t quite keep the excitement out of his voice.

Akaashi can’t quite keep the smile off his face, either.

The next half hour takes place in relative silence as Bokuto acquaints himself with long, broad strokes and light touches. As far as designs go, this one isn’t his most eye-catching or groundbreaking. It doesn’t even reach his top ten list, if he’s being honest.

Circling his mind is less of pure design, more along the lines of the way Akaashi looked at him in the library when no one else was around; the way the tension leaves Bokuto’s body whenever he slumps against the wall of an empty alleyway he may never see again, closing his eyes to the gentle sway of the greenery and the soft hum of appliances overhead; the way a client reacts whenever they see their new tattoo in the mirror for the first time, their grin starting to wobble. Like they’re captivated, but relaxed. A strange kind of elated calm.

As Bokuto puts the finishing touches on the last leaf, he feels oddly buoyant. He’s not even making a flying tattoo this time, but he’ll take it.

“Hey, hey, ‘Kaashi, what do you think?” Bokuto’s actively biting back a grin as he holds the sketchbook up.

The leaves look enormous in top-down perspective, overflowing from the barely-visible flower pot and sprouting in all different directions. Smaller leaves cluster in the middle while larger leaves reach up the sky, intricate grooves taking up most of the edges of the page.

“Was there a reason for choosing a plant?” Akaashi asks. “I assumed you would go with a more...bombastic design.”

“I was going to draw an owl at first,” Bokuto admits, “because owls are cool and my mentor never lets me draw them. But Yahaba said lemon balm was good for stress or something, and I’m supposed to tailor tattoos to my clients anyway, so I went with this.”

Hands loosen on the blanket. Bokuto looks up to find Akaashi’s gaze trained on the sketchbook, lips parted in soft astonishment. He responds with a mumbled _thank you_ eventually, but the entire thing’s unfair: his voice is tinged with something deliriously close to fondness, and Bokuto is so, so warm.

Agh, he’s attached. Bokuto’s not really in the habit of lying to himself. Even if he has to watch Akaashi disappear into the night with the open knowledge that he wants to ask him to stay, he can’t lie to himself.

“Well, I should probably start! Potion will be done soon. Or it should be, anyway.”

Drawing Akaashi’s arm into his lap, Bokuto uncaps the pen with his mouth, spinning it with a flourish as he scans his drawing.

“That was unnecessary,” Akaashi says.

“It makes me feel better before I start. I’ve only ever messed up and flicked it onto my client’s shoulder once, I promise!”

Akaashi huffs, shaking his head. “Honestly, Bokuto-san. Are you drawing this free-hand?”

“Yeah, I don’t think we have enough time for a stencil. Wait, is that okay with—”

“Yes,” Akaashi interrupts. “Go ahead.”

Feeling good is his main concern, more than sticking to the drawing. Not a problem, considering that nothing insidious is in his head _this_ time, whispering a maelstrom of doubts and weaknesses into his conscience.

On the contrary, his mind goes oddly still the second he presses the tip of the pen to Akaashi’s skin. Focusing on sensations is what Bokuto’s always done best: quick, decisive flicks as he translates the larger leaves into the curve of Akaashi’s wrist. Light taps as he gets in small shading. Akaashi’s gaze, fervent and bright, is locked onto him when he glances up for a breather. 

(Bokuto doesn’t know why, but he thinks if he leaned forward and broke a semi-established boundary, it would be a _moment_. One of those special kinds, like in a shoujo manga where the protagonist meets the main guy on the balcony of a warm summer evening and the wind blows in her hair as the stars begin to shine in the sky above. Rather than the wind, though, Akaashi’s laugh would ring in the still air between them, and in Bokuto’s opinion, that’s about a million times better. Maybe a trillion.

A _moment_ with Akaashi is number one on the list of _Improbable Things to Happen to Bokuto Koutarou (Even Though He Really, Really Wants Them To)_ , so he tucks the thought into his head and keeps working.)

Bokuto pulls away after the last detail, watching Akaashi’s face for his reaction. Outwardly, he doesn’t get much at first, but his lip twitches like he’s fighting back a smile, and that is more than enough.

“It’s lovely.” Akaashi takes a slow, deep breath. “Thank you.”

“Do you feel any different?”

Humming, Akaashi taps a finger against his leg. A cadence of uneven beats.

“I suppose I do. If I had to say, I feel significantly calmer than I did this morning.”

Bokuto sits up with so much force that the bed shakes. “It worked! I knew I could still do it! I’m so cool, aren’t I, ‘Kaashi?”

Akaashi raises an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“I told you the tattoos were affected by my emotions, yeah?” Bokuto doesn’t give Akaashi time to respond. “They’re also affected by the meaning it holds for me! Like, I associated lemon balm with calm while drawing, so that kind of just...translated into the tattoo, if that makes sense? I’m not the best at explaining these things, but that’s the basic idea.”

Seriously, how many times is he going to be the subject of Akaashi’s unwavering stare today? He can only handle it so many times before something embarrassing slips past his mouth.

“That explanation was fine. You don’t have to apologize for your running commentary. I like hearing your thoughts.”

And that is new. Akaashi’s shoulders are drawn up, like he’s trying to teleport out of the room, but Bokuto catches the faint flush in his cheeks as he turns away and can’t help but think _huh, that’s new, too._

———

Opening the door is an endeavor that takes about twenty minutes. Maybe more.

More specifically, twenty minutes of Bokuto grasping the door handle and letting go, finding a different reason to stall each time. Quite a logical affair, Bokuto would say, except for the fact that Akaashi seems more and more agitated as it goes on.

Bokuto’s on reason number seventeen ( _listen, they’ll fire me on the spot, I swear_ ) when Akaashi pushes the door open and shoves Bokuto inside.

Even more terrifying is the person behind the desk when Bokuto stumbles in, all unrepentant glares and lips pressed in a flat line. He’s about five seconds away from booking it out the front door. (A perfectly normal reaction, he thinks.)

“Bokuto,” Iwaizumi says, his voice like steel. “Nice of you to join us after ten days of unpaid leave.”

Akaashi’s somehow already in the waiting room, searching through his bag for—a book. _He's not going to help, huh_ crosses his mind, followed by the equally as eloquent _fight your own battles, c’mon!_ and Iwaizumi’s already about to kill him. Bokuto might as well not add any other casualties.

“Ten days?” Bokuto repeats faintly. “Wow, time really does fly—”

“ _Where have you been?_ ” Iwaizumi snaps.

“Well, I kinda fell into a slump after the thing happened,” Bokuto starts, wincing. “How is Kuroo, actually?”

“That’s a funny question,” Iwaizumi says, “because I updated you through text. Several times. Answer the question, Bokuto.”

“Yeah, so I may have blocked everyone by accident?” Bokuto says, because he’s always been an honest person and it may just cost him his life via an angry receptionist. “I was—”

“Are you fucking serious?” Iwaizumi runs a hand through spiked hair (Bokuto’s always wondered about that, because whenever he does it to his own hair, he gets gel everywhere, but Iwaizumi makes it look cool. He should probably ask when Iwaizumi’s more than two seconds away from killing him, though). “What have you been doing?”

“I was trying to find a way to fix what I did to Kuroo, okay!” Bokuto shouts. “I did mope for, like, a while, but I couldn’t face the shop until I either quit or solved the problem. It just didn’t feel right, y’know?”

Iwaizumi sighs, crossing his arms. “At least let me know if you’re going to be gone for long stretches of time. It’s my damn job to rearrange the schedule to work around any absences.”

“Right, right,” Bokuto says, distracted. “Kuroo?”

“Oi, unblock all of us first.” Iwaizumi’s already shaking his head as Bokuto scrambles for his phone. “But Kuroo’s fine. You forgot about Kenma’s power, didn’t you.”

It’s not a question.

“Kenma’s—? Oh.”

Kenma’s contradictory power of nullifying the magical effects of anyone who touched him. That…might have been extremely important to remember.

That information had probably been in the 257 missed messages blowing up his phone as he unblocks half his contact list, but Bokuto’s a man of action. And if action involves deleting all his social media and blocking anyone who could blame him for taking away his best friend’s voice, that’s just what happens.

“Are they—?”

“Joined at the hip until we find a permanent solution,” Iwaizumi says, putting down his phone. “I’m more worried for Kenma, to be honest.”

Bokuto can understand that concern.

“I actually have a solution,” Bokuto says, settling his hands on his hips.

Iwaizumi narrows his eyes. “This better be an actual solution and not a link to some forum post about—”

“No, it’s real, look at this!” Bokuto takes out a large glass vial, clearly labelled _healing potion #3!_ closely followed by _Final Product_ in neater handwriting. “If Kuroo drinks this and puts some excess on the tattoo, the effect should go away!”

“Has the potion been tested?”

Bokuto glances surreptitiously at Akaashi, who’s in the waiting room, his face buried in a book.

“Yeah, it has.”

He hadn’t wanted to do it, not when he’s seen what Akaashi looks like with all the tension drained out of his body, but Akaashi had insisted on testing the potion out to make sure there weren’t any side effects. It had been the practical thing to do according to Akaashi, and Bokuto can concede that point.

(It had been nice, seeing something he made on Akaashi’s skin. Something about the knowledge is electrifying, even after the temporary tattoo itself is long gone.)

Iwaizumi shrugs. “Fair enough. You’re cleared to come back next Monday once I’ve applied the potion to Kuroo.”

“Wait, what does that mean,” Bokuto says more than asks, his eyes wide with panic. “Iwaizumi, what does that _mean?_ ”

The door swings open.

“And then he—Bo! You’re here!”

Kuroo stands at the door, arm lazily draped around Kenma’s shoulders. Kenma himself is on his phone, looking bored (as per usual) and Kuroo’s staring at him with a wide, pleased grin (as per usual), and everything’s so close to his old normalcy that Bokuto almost bursts into tears on the spot.

“ _Bro_ ,” is what Bokuto settles on as he lunges forward, nearly tackling Kuroo into a hug. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know I felt that bad! I was just, like, super eager to give you the power and do my second ever tattoo, y’know? On my best friend! I was so excited! But I messed up and you can take away my best bro rights if you really want to, I won’t be—”

“Bo, _hey_ , slow down.” Kuroo presses a soothing hand against his back. “No one’s best bro rights are being taken away. I’m not mad at you, which you would have known if you _read your messages_.”

Bokuto stiffens. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Kenma, with a hand on Kuroo’s back, look up.

“Okay, that did make me kind of pissed. What gives, just disappearing like that? But I’m used to you doing impulsive, irrational things, bro. It’s kind of your thing, if you haven’t noticed.”

Kuroo’s voice holds enough sincerity to not quite be sarcastic and that’s the real sign that things will be okay.

Bokuto smiles against his shoulder. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

———

“Koutarou, I’m irritated as well,” Kenma pipes up when Kuroo’s in the staff room with Iwaizumi applying the potion. “You could have confirmed you weren’t dead with a response. We live too far away to check ourselves, you know that.”

Kenma’s much quieter, but somehow, getting scolded by him is as scary as getting yelled at by Iwaizumi.

“Yeah, my bad,” Bokuto sputters. “I—”

“Were you too scared to see how we’d react? Did you think we’d be so mad we wouldn’t even hear you out? Did you seriously think that we would end a friendship over something that was obviously a mistake?”

He had almost forgotten how rapid-fire and piercing Kenma got when he was angry.

“No matter what, we care about you, you idiot. Kuro was about to go looking for you himself until we got the text that you showed up here. Don’t make us worry like that again, it’s annoying.”

Yeah, he had definitely been focused on the wrong stuff in the park.

“I’m sorry,” Bokuto says. “It was a bad move to not check, I know that now. It was hard, y’know? I had no idea what to do.”

Kenma puts down his phone with a sigh. “I know. So does Kuro. I’ll cut to the chase: who helped you?”

“With what?”

“The potion,” Kenma said, tilting his head towards the staff room. “You would have moped for another two weeks if left to your own devices. What happened?”

“Hey, Akaashi,” Bokuto calls, turning around. “Can I introduce you?”

“Why would you ask me when I’m not in a position to say no?” Akaashi says as he sets his book on the chair next to him.

“I should have asked earlier, my bad.”

“I don’t mind, Bokuto-san.”

“Did you help?” Kenma interrupts, unperturbed.

“I helped him create the potion, yes,” Akaashi replies.

“I don’t recognize you.”

“Bokuto-san and I met a few days ago. We would have had no reason to meet until now.”

Kenma studies Akaashi for a long moment. Neither of them so much as blink.

“You did more than just help with the potion.” Kenma says this like a fact. He’s not exactly wrong. “You got him back on his feet.”

“I suppose you could say that. How is this relevant?”

“It’s not,” Kenma replies. “Just an observation.”

A small smile grows on his face, more obvious in the content glow of Kenma’s eyes than the curve of his lips, but Bokuto stares at him wide-eyed all the same.

“You’re already so invested,” Kenma finishes bluntly.

“Huh?” Bokuto isn’t expecting much of a response.

Akaashi’s back to reading his book, though Bokuto’s not sure how he’s reading anything when the book is that close to his face.

“‘Kaashi, are you good?” Bokuto asks, poking the book as he sits down next to him.

“Akaashi,” he corrects quietly, lifting his head. 

Bokuto blinks. “But you’ve never said anything before—”

“I’m trying to read.”

“You haven’t turned the page for the last five minutes.”

“That is irrelevant.”

“It’s kinda relevant.”

“Please go back to waiting for your friend,” Akaashi says as he turns the page.

Bokuto grins, opening his phone. “I totally won that.”

Akaashi purses his lips but does not reply. It’s so refined and underhanded that Bokuto can't help it: he starts laughing.

———

“Worked like a charm,” Kuroo says, arms spread as he walks into the waiting room.

“Finally,” Kenma says. “I can have some rest.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I mean every word.”

“Lying isn’t good for you, Kenma.”

“Then what does it do for you?”

“What are you insinuating? I’m nothing if not a good person.”

“I think I’ll take my leave now,” Akaashi cuts in. “It seems like they could argue for hours.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it arguing, but you’re right,” Bokuto says absentmindedly, until the words catch up to him. “Wait, you’re leaving? Now?”

“I have to pick up my computer. It’s been fixed.”

“Oh.” Bokuto’s voice is a little too flat. “I hope you didn’t completely hate your stay this time around?”

He’s annoyed at himself for how hard it is to keep the smile on his face.

Akaashi shakes his head. “I don’t understand why you look so upset. Of course I didn’t hate my stay. In fact, I could afford to stay for a few extra days. How does coffee at seven sound?”

Kuroo and Kenma’s voices have mysteriously faded in the background.

“I apologize,” Akaashi mutters, looking mortified, “if I misconstrued the atmosphere, I assumed—”

“Seven is a good time!” Bokuto shouts. “I’m free all day! I’m just curious.”

At Akaashi’s blank look, Bokuto sucks in a breath and continues. “Why, though?”

“Why?” Akaashi repeats, like the question is ridiculous even as his fingers toy with the sleeves on his jacket. “I’ve told you before. You’re interesting, and I like hearing your thoughts.”

Bokuto holds onto the words, tangible and warm and alive, and smiles, wide and unabashed.

“Seven works,” he says gleefully.

“Right,” Akaashi murmurs, standing up, and there’s no book to hide the fact that his face is scarlet. “I’ll be going now. Please don’t be thirty minutes late again.”

Taking almost too-quick strides towards the door and mumbling a soft _excuse me_ , Akaashi disappears in under twenty seconds. Kenma snorts and turns back to his phone.

“Did you just—” Kuroo starts.

“Yep,” Bokuto says.

“You do realize you’re telling us everything later, right?” Kuroo continues.

Bokuto just smiles.

He can’t even say it feels like a shoujo manga because he feels like he’s glowing and his limbs feel lighter and the world feels like it’s in reach. If anything, Bokuto feels like the love interest who was wooed in the end, except Akaashi didn’t need to confess to him on a balcony while the sunset played off his hair. Akaashi really doesn’t have to do anything except be there, and Bokuto will still find something captivating about him. It’s how the world works.

It’s so far from a goodbye that Bokuto grins into the open air and allows himself to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i most definitely rewrote every scene at least 5 times aghhhh. but this was fun to write!!  
> also bokuto the shoujo manga enthusiast is an accidental hc but i'm here for it

**Author's Note:**

> chapter 2 will include the actual tattooing part of bokuto's job, i promise


End file.
